


Recidivist

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s08e22 Clip Show, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.22 coda. angst. <i>"Castiel is pliant, if grumpy, against his hands, when they finally get him inside."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Recidivist

Castiel is pliant, if grumpy, against his hands, when they finally get him inside. Dean hums irritably around the needle between his lips, the thread trailing against his chin. He’s sat at Castiel’s bedside –  _his_ bedside, actually – and he has one hand splayed over Castiel’s quivering abdomen, the other braced on the bed. He hums again.

“This is bad.” His voice is muffled around the needle; Castiel huffs.

“I know.” He says, and Dean laughs gently.

“Yeah, well. Shouldn’t have done it, then, should you?” They don’t talk about what Castiel actually  _did._ Dean doesn’t want to ask, just yet; he’s okay with this quiet moment, this calm before the storm that always, inevitably, rolls in.

“It wasn’t a ch-“ Castiel hisses when Dean disinfects the gash in his side; it’s smaller than it was when he arrived, healing slowly, and it looks – it looks fucking  _terrible,_ but it’s healing. At least there’s that.

“You think you’ll need stitches?” Dean mutters; if Cas was human, the question wouldn’t even need asking; but Castiel shakes his head, mussing his hair against the pillow.

“It would probably only interfere with the process.”

Dean murmurs, and absent-mindedly thumbs at Castiel’s hip. He picks the needle from between his lips, and puts it back in the med-kit he’s left on the bedside table. “I’m gonna put a dressing on it, though. Make sure you don’t…” he eyes the wound carefully. “Fall out.”

Castiel chuckles softly. “That would complicate things.”

“Yeah, a little.” He feels like so much is going unsaid; probably because it  _is._ He’s embarrassed to talk to Cas after what happened; mortified by how he must have sounded, desperate,  _pleading._ Yet Castiel acts like nothing happened, like nothing has changed, and to some extent that makes it worse.

But Castiel turns a muggy, half-delirious smile on him, and Dean’s heart pulls up, in his chest. His lungs spasm. He’s so fucking  _gone._

“Thankyou, Dean.” He says, and Dean shrugs.

“S’what I do.”

“I know.” Castiel breathes, and Dean shuts his eyes briefly, conscious of the weight of Cas’ gaze.

“You, uh-“ he starts winding gauze around the wound; it’s makeshift, but there’s not much else he  _needs_ to do, beyond keeping it clean – he rolls it carefully across Castiel’s belly, and motions for him to shift, so he can pull it around his lower back, up his waist, around his middle again. He does this a couple more times, never finishing his sentence, and then ties it off, firmly but carefully; the little kit-bag they keep around for this sort of thing has scissors, and he uses them to snip off the trailing end of the gauze. Castiel’s eyes haven’t left him, the whole time. “You need anything else?” he says, and Castiel shakes his head. Dean moves to get up – but Castiel’s hand closes around his wrist as it leaves his skin, forcing him to stop.

“I’d like you to stay.” It’s not a question; not a command, either. Dean looks towards the door, open a crack, and twists his hand out of Castiel’s grip to go push it closed.

It clicks; he turns against it to where Castiel watches him, careful, his breaths shallow, stomach lifting and sinking, just a little, when he inhales; exhales. Shadows skirt the edges of his features, lit only by Dean’s dim bedside lamp.

“I can – yeah, I can do that.” His words trip. The memory surfaces, again;  _I need you._ Worry and terror squirm in his gut, but he crosses to the bed, nonetheless.

“I’m gonna get some shut-eye, though.” He sits down, then tentatively slides into place beside Castiel, seated against the headboard. “You don’t need to sleep, right?”

Castiel blinks slowly. “I might…” his fingers play around the bandage, and Dean fights the urge to slap his hand away, like when Sam used to pick and itch at stitches. “Indulge.” He finishes, and smiles at Dean; shuffles down a little in the bed, and Dean just  _follows,_ thinks nothing of it; they’ve been here before, of course, if not for a couple of years. Castiel lies on his back, unable to do anything else. Dean, once he’s settled, turns onto his side. Castiel reaches for his hand.

“I could watch over you.” Dean says quietly, and Castiel actually laughs.

“Or you could rest.”

“Think m’gonna do the second one.” He yawns widely; something prickles in his gut. Castiel clasps their hands loosely together, and Dean does what’s natural; he leans over to kiss him softly on the edge of his mouth, lips stuttering against his cheek when he pulls away. Castiel’s eyes are closed, then; but he speaks.

“It’s been a while.” He says, and his voice has an edge to it, hollow. Dean shuts his eyes.

“Forget it.” Castiel’s hand is so fucking  _warm;_ he’d forgotten. “It’s – we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Mm.” is all Castiel says in response, and Dean huffs a laugh when he hears him start to snore. He curls in on himself, small as he can; the bed, though wider than a single, isn’t really built for two. Castiel’s body heat ebbs against his shoulder.

 —-

He’s always loved Castiel in the mornings; even when he didn’t sleep he seemed to be mussed and bed-soft in the half-white light of day. When things were at their best, most of the time he would turn over; kiss Dean awake, coerce him into fucking him slow and sleepy, even though Dean worried  _constantly_ that they’d wake Sam.

He sits up on his elbows; this time, Castiel is still asleep.

It’s like he was drunk the night before; feels strange, like he went out to a bar and (lucky him) brought home an angel.

He thinks how much he’s missed him; he smiles; and then it’s like a dam is broken.

Everything shatters. The bed, Castiel; Dean, himself. The weight, the  _flood_ of everything from the night before breaks over him, swallows him whole.

 _I need you._ And he  _left._

He swallows, hard, and knows what this is; a sinking feeling in his stomach, like someone is reeling his intestines out of him, link by link. Castiel’s warmth is suddenly  _stifling;_ their hands came uncoupled in the night.

Castiel is beautiful, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His hair’s a mess; his arms are loose, one hooked over his belly, the other groping for Dean’s hand. Dean shifts away; slowly, by inches, so he won’t notice.

It’s a moment he would have relished, a while ago; but now it feels like a lie. Nothing lasts, nothing is  _saved._ Castiel will leave him, just like everything else; just like Sam will.

He swallows against the razor in his throat.

What’s the fucking  _point?_

His face flushes, thinking of the night before; that tender kiss, like a new beginning. Latching on to Castiel like he  _needs_ him, like he always fucking does. He wants to wake Cas, shake him, force him to give an answer;  _will you stay, will you be safe? What did you do, what are we now?_ But the words rise and turn into bile, instead, and he scrambles off the mattress as if burned. The movement jogs Castiel out of sleep; he blinks, blearily. He calls Dean’s name.

Dean just leaves.

It doesn’t feel like a punishment. It doesn’t even feel like it’s what Castiel deserves; it just feels weird, and petty. His mouth tastes like acid.

He shuts the door behind him – ignores the way Castiel calls his name, again. He goes into the kitchen, where Sam is, and waves him off when Sam asks if he’s okay. His legs are fucking  _shaking._

Standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter for support, his heart hammers in his chest as he waits for Castiel to come in. By the time he does – hours later – all that’s left of that soft, hesitant morning has burned away; is an aching grimace in Dean’s gut; a twist of shame.

There’s no point to this, no point to holding on, because Cas is just going to leave him, in the end. He probably won’t even say goodbye.

Castiel tells him “Good morning.” Innocent. He doesn’t know what he’s done; but for Dean the game has changed, the tone is different. He shakes with rage.

He told Cas he loved him, once, in his way; and even then, moments later, Castiel was gone. Last night he’d come so close to it again; the way his skin trembled, his lungs _ached._ He’d entertained thoughts of holding him; of being held, again.

But it’s different now; there’s so much between them, and it’s broken over Dean, overflowed. He can’t speak around his rage, the unfairness of it all.

He can’t bear to make the same mistake, again. 


End file.
